


Ten

by Onlymostydead



Series: Fictober 2019 [8]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Journal style fic, OCD Type Symptoms, Thoughts of Self-harm, canon typical violence mention, ocd mention, trauma response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 00:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymostydead/pseuds/Onlymostydead
Summary: Tim has a problem. Slowly taking over his life, working its way into everything he does, is the number ten. Ten clicks of a pen, ten words in every sentence he writes, on and on. Is it a stress response? A curse? Something else?





	Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Fictober day 10! One third of the way (almost). 
> 
> This has been an idea of mine for a while, so finally getting it done was really rad. 
> 
> Also, shoutout to D who requested Tim Angst.

Tim Drake's Journal: October the tenth, two thousand and nineteen.

The possible curse (obsession?) with the number "ten" continues strong. It's become a problem; is "it's" one or two words? For now, I'm counting it and all others as one. It's just simpler that way, than splitting it into half. Or, counting it as two takes away valuable sentence space. When you can only write in tens, that matters significantly. Doesn't seem like it would matter; trust me, it does.

But, beyond trying to figure out how to write now. Whatever it is - stress response, curse - it's worse. Getting worse, but I didn't have the space back there. Fuck, this is irritating; if it were a curse maybe...

You'd think a curse would make it easy, wouldn't you? Like, when people get cursed to speak in only Shakespeare. They're never completely silent because they can't figure out poetry.

Oh shit - this won't spread to speech, will it?

That's just the thing, though: I have no fucking clue. The only thing I can do is record the data. That way, when it gets worse, I can see change. It sounds so simple, when your life isn't all tens. Data collection is fine, until you're the specimen being observed.

Does this mean I'm going to turn into a ten? Like, ten out of ten, how hot you are, supposedly?

Never mind, that was really pretty damn stupid of me. Can't believe I spent that long trying to formulate words. It's stupid, wanting to write things down, thinking about ten.

But I suppose that it's my life right now, unfortunately. 

Anyway, back to recording things that matter, instead of complaining. 

I've never had OCD symptoms before, so development is interesting. And by interesting I mean absolutely, positively, terrifying beyond belief. That's the only way I know how to describe it. The obsession with the number ten, for one, is concerning. Then follow that up with my need to follow it? Writing sentences of only ten words, no more no less? Clicking my pen ten full times before I can write? Flicking the damn light switch on and off ten times? 

It's getting out of control - or it started there. I have no fucking idea, to be completely, entirely honest. I'm just tired of all of these groups of ten.

But if I don't do it, things get bad fast. 

Not really, though; I haven't seen any real life repercussions. Just the ones that I keep making in my head. But if I don't do something completely right at first? It makes my skin crawl, my head scream, over and-

It's terrifying that such a fake seeming thing has control. It has complete control over me; it could demand more. Who knows, maybe tens stop being satisfactory, what happens then?

What could this power make me do, out of check?

Because it's not really like OCD, which can be controlled. Or at least worked on to a point, like Bruce's. (Even though his is a bad example, since it's... Bad.) I don't know where it started, came from or anything. I've never dealt with this before, so now it's overwhelming.

Or maybe I was just cursed to have OCD, somehow?

Cursing would seem more viable if I knew how or... Knowing how, or when, or who would make this easier. Unfortunately, all of this shit just decided to develop somehow. 

Finally get back from the Leage of Shadows, have downtime. But too much downtime for it to seem Ra's-like, really. And Ra's doesn't put curses on people - normally, anyway. That's just not the kind of thing he does, so...

So who could it be, because I saw no one.

That was during Bruce's forced downtime, so I wasn't out. Gotham's villains had no access to me at that point. So how did I end up with this nightmare of-

Deep, calm breaths; writing is something you do for fun. Not to push the tip of the pen really hard. Jeez, Tim, you almost ripped though the paper like that. 

Yeah - this shit isn't fun, or funny, at all. Good thing Damian doesn't know a thing about it yet. We're on good terms now, but he'd still use it. Just because we're not killing each other doesn't mean anything.

Hell, I haven't told anyone about this whole thing yet. I'll have to, eventually, I'm sure - just common sense. Or someone will finally start to question my weird behavior. It hasn't exactly been the most subtle, have to say. 

Speaking of behavior: I clicked my pen thirty times earlier. It was kind of a calming thing, in a way. Maybe I should be more concerned about that, but really? It was kind of nice, having something soothing like that.

Soothing - clicking a pen - whatever works for me? I guess that's just how it has to work now. 

Fuck, I just feel so lost, in all of this. My nightmares haven't gotten any better, for more normal news. I know there's nothing I can do about it now...

I can't help the feeling that I could have fought. Like that was more that I should have - fuck. I can't keep thinking like that, it'll tear me apart. 

It wasn't my fault; and again, it wasn't my fault. 

And now all I can do is live with it. All I can do is live with myself, move on. Try to scrub myself clean in the shower, over again. 

If I ever feel clean again, it'll be a miracle. 

But, beyond that, not much more to write down here. Patrol has been normal; as normal as it can be. Nothing bad has happened in Gotham yet, knock on wood. 

Bruce is still the only one who knows about the... The time that I spent with the League of Shadows. Well, others know I was there, but he knows what...

You know full well what I'm talking about, so, yeah. 

And I'm talking to myself; isn't that just the best?

Signing out - Tim Drake, October tenth, two thousand nineteen.

***

Tim Drake's Journal: October twenty first, two thousand and nineteen.

It's been ten days since my last entry; it's worse. Yeah, spoiler alert, things have not gotten better for me. Surprise surprise, but honestly, what else did you expect, really? The symptoms remain severe, but consistent, at least, that helps. It's not shifting and changing to different numbers or anything. Just the same old sick and tired number ten still.

There are new things I have to do now, though. I turn the shower on and off ten times now. It doesn't make it any safer, but it eases fears. Otherwise, I'm panic stricken that he'll come in and he'll...

I don't want to think about that anymore, right now. And I most definately don't want to write about it.

Any time I'm naked is the worst, easily, hands down. Changing clothes, taking showers, any of that normal stuff, really. That's when I do the most things in tens, too. I need those soothing things so that I feel safe. 

Fuck, I need them now; see how it's getting worse?

Still don't feel safe, but if it makes it better...

Anything to make it better, at this point, is welcome. I've tried sleeping pills, sedatives, anything to let me sleep. But those just make the nightmares worse, so guess not. It's a delicate balance; one I wish I could change.

I swear, these nightmares will be the death of me.

But, in order to keep that from happening, the tens. Checking the straps of my suit over and over again. It looks crazy and obsessive, Damian even mentioned it once. But I brushed him off because he's always doing that. No one takes him seriously, pointing things out about me.

Now, if it were Cass I would have an issue. No, she would already know what happened with Ra's immediately. Just by reading my body language, she could understand it. The tens would be harder to explain, but she knew.

Or would know, if she were here, which she isn't. Thankfully; not to say that I don't really miss her. Because I do, it's really the worst when she's gone. But it's much harder to keep secrets with her around.

And the whole League of Shadows thing is definately secret. How Damian would react to finding out about that was...

Damians reactions to anything are a complete mystery, at times. And adding family into the mix only makes that worse. I can't risk him finding out, which means no Cass.

Wait a second, I had to stop writing a bit. Alfred was knocking on the door to ask about tea. But now, rereading what I had written so far today...

The tens are all associated with bad things happening, right? It's all about me keeping things from happening to me. Every time I don't, I end up curled up, sobbing. And it's the worst any time I have to undress...

Fuck, does it have to do with what happened there? When I was trapped with the League, trapped with Ra's?

I don't know, really, and there's no way to know. I can't fix it, even if it is, and I'm...

Never have I been so grateful for Alfred bringing tea. He knows when to do that with an eerie accuracy. 

I took ten sips of the tea before writing again. Fucking hell, I don't know what to do with this. I need to tell someone, don't I at this point? There's no one who could have done this but Ra's. No one but the League of Shadows, but that doesn't...

But that really just doesn't make sense now, does it? Curses aren't the League's game, I know that full well. Unless he's consorting with someone else, Ra's isn't doing this. 

If he could affect my mind, wouldn't he have already? And wouldn't it have been in a different way, honestly? Tormenting me is fair, but Ra's wanted me to stay. He wanted me on his side, so why number ten? Why would he try to do it like this, nonsensically?

Nonsensically; it doesn't make any fucking sense, I know it. Frustrating as that is, I know that it isn't it.

But it has ties to Ra's in my head, somehow. Or, it at least to torment, and he's certainly there. Every time I close my eyes it's always getting worse.

Hell, next thing I know I'll be blinking in sets. Then checking my grappling line in tens, slowing me down. Is that the point of it all, slowing me down? To take me off the dangerous streets of Gotham City? To force me to be softer, less scarred up, prettier?

He likes the prettier parts of me, where I'm scarless. Shaved hairless, pretty, not really a "real boy" so he's... So he's guitless in his attraction to his "little detective."

If I never had to hear him say that again. It would be too fucking soon, I'll tell you that. 

But is this to make it so, slowly, I'm useless? Out of commission in a way that seems mentally ill? 

If it's to keep me from getting scars, I'll fucking... I'll take a batarang and carve myself ten ugly lines. I'd do it, just to mark the skin, not pretty. Make it so that he doesn't want to touch me. I'd do it everywhere if I had to, really would.

Fuck, I'll never be clean ever again, no matter what. No matter how many times I click this damn pen. No matter how many times I turn on the shower. No matter how many sips of tea, or anything else.

I'm just fucking broken, aren't I, but it doesn't matter. Gotta move on, pick up the pieces, make it work. It's all I can do, after all, at this point.  
Nightmares are so bad, I drug myself to sleep anyway.

Patrol's been fine, no major injuries; Damian broke his nose. It'll heal up alright though, won't even be that crooked.

I just want to curl up and disappear right now.

Signing out - Tim, October twenty first, two thousand nineteen.

***

Tim Drake's Journal: November eighth, two and thousand and nineteen.

What can I say with that big of a gap? My entires have always been sporadic but never this bad. Everything has just been, well, I guess you could say...

Everything went to shit, to be honest; it fell apart.

Correction: everything went to shit, and I fell apart completely. It's amazing how sedating yourself to sleep isn't very good. So, sleep deprived as I was, I wasn't working well. And of course everyone had noticed that sonething was up. But Bruce didn't want to say anything because he knew. So he was keeping silent, but Damian was getting worried.

And a worried Damian is absolutely terrifying, by the way.

So Damian got worried and told Dick something or other. Then Dick asked Bruce, who said everything was all fine. But everything was obviously not all fine because, well, honestly...

I was a hot mess trying my best to function. I probably hadn't showered in days because it's too difficult. I slept in my suit, some days, to avoid changing. Disgusting, I know, but that was how I was functioning.  
And I was convinced that was the most important thing. How Bruce-like of me, but anyway, let's not go there.

So Dick wasn't convinced, so he got mad at Bruce. And chaos ensued for a while, but I zoned out. At the end of things, I'm still not entirely sure... 

I really hadn't realized how much I still don't know. I'm not sure who knows what, the Shadows and all. And honestly, I'm not entirely sure that I can care. But one thing is definitely for sure: Dick knows something. We talked about getting help, talking to someone about this.  
He never referred to "this" by name, but who knows? That could mean anything, really: embarrassment, consideration, or just ignorance. He really could not know the root of the problem. 

But how much Dick knows hasn't really affected anything noticeable. Right now I'm benched, so we're not working together out. Patrol will be the real test of things eventually, though. We'll just have to wait around and see, I guess. Just hanging out with him, not a thing has changed. He's the same older brother I've always had all along. No awkwardness, no distance, just same old, same old everything.  
Damian, though, definitely still does not know what's going on. He's pretending that he's irritated with me, but not well. I know that it's because he cares about me still. Starting out on a bad foot or not, still brothers. He'll bring me tea, or food, complaining I don't eat. It's endearing, almost, in his own weird kind of way.

I talk to a trusted psychiatrist in the city, now. Don't know how Bruce found her, or how he's paying. Must be pretty good, if she's keeping her lips sealed. It's definately helped some; I mean, can't expect miracles yet.

The ten thing is probably a stress response coping mechanism. I mean, what's one of my go to pain responses? Breath in and count to ten, breath out, same thing. Over and over again until the pain is done with. That's gotten me through a lot, including Ra's al Ghul. 

How I didn't think of it before is beyond me. I guess I don't even think about it, anymore now. It's just another thing that I do, causing more problems. Weird, but at least I know what it is now. Much easier to deal with than curses and that shit. 

Though, if there was an easy fix for this, I'd...  
Well, I'd be on that in a moment, but no. There isn't; the only way to get through is work. Working through all of my trauma surrounding it, moving on.

Normally I'd just push it all back; this hurts more. It's uglier, trying to work it out, by far worse. There are definitely days I've wanted to quit; not life. No, I have too many people to live on for. But having to go to all of this therapy, talking? 

You don't realize how someone hurt you until it's said. Until you have to say it out loud, and it's...  
Fuck, this is where I'm at, isn't it right now? No, you know what I'm going to do right now? I'm going to go and find whoever's in the manor. Because being alone sucks, to be honest, and I'm tired. Even if it's just playing video games, watching a movie... Might have to boot up the gaming console ten times. I hope not; I'll just get Damian to do it. But being with other people sounds a whole lot better. 

Guess a quick update on other things is in order. I'm sleeping worse than ever, but with less vivid nightmares. Not taking literal sedatives to get to sleep will help. But, of course, that also means I'm sleeping much less. So, well, you win some you lose some, I guess. That's just how it has to be at the moment.  
Also, Alfred locked the cabinet with the sedatives and such. So, not a viable option on that front, as well. Frustrating to be treated like a kid, but I understand. 

Patrol's been a little rougher since I'm not out there. Well, it was worse to me before that too, but... None of my injuries are severe enough to really mention. Worst I got was a nasty gash across my thigh.

Have to say, it's probably going to scar up nicely. I'm not mad about that, even if it needed stitches. 

Everyone's been pretty beat up recently, though, since we're short. Cass is in Hong Kong for a while longer still. Stephanie broke her leg last month, so she's on crutches. Duke's just been doing his best on the day shift. So it's pretty crazy still, to just be entirely honest.

But hey, at least we all have each other here.

Signing out, Tim Drake, November the eighth, two thousand nineteen.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at Supertinywords or Supertinybats!
> 
> Requests are open!
> 
> Comments are love <3


End file.
